_____________________________________
Untitled
By Garik Charneco
Untitled
By Garik Charneco
Staccato rules the neighborhood. After the hurricane, everyone fires up the generators they bought the night before. Each unit is still shiny, the generous gas tanks still hungry for refills. Our generator cannot compare to the new ones, except in noise. It rumbles with the best of the new ones, at least those without mufflers.
Runka-runka-runka-runka! The noise echoes against the concrete in our basement, the tiny two-horsepower motor churning out enough power for the fridge, a single fan, and a TV. Christie will turn the fan to high around noon time and then we lose the TV. Nothing to watch anyway, just the broadcast stations on 24-hour alert. The generator goes on. Runka-runka-runka-runka!
The DPW just opened the freeway and my uncle Peter brings his kids over. They do not have a generator, living in the walk-up apartments out by the mall. Generators are prohibited, just like any and all pets. His kids, my little cousins, cringe at the cacophony. Alissa, the oldest, inhales deep and imitates the noise. Runka-runka-runka-runka, in the best rumble an eleven year old can do.
Uncle Peter came for ice, but Christie persuades them to stay for dinner. She waves a platter of chicken thighs she just grilled up on the charcoal Hibachi. "It's to keep them from spoiling for just a little bit longer," she explains to the kids. "But they will do much better in your stomachs!" She smiles as the boy, Manny, sandwiches a crispy thigh between slices of wheat bread. We eat dinner out in the backyard, so that we don't have to strain our voices over the generator. Runka-runka-runka-runka!
It is 10-o'clock. The gas in the generator dwindles to fumes. Rrrrrr....unka-rrrrrr.....unka-rrrrr...rrr....unka! Uncle Peter grabs his bag of ice and calls out to the kids. We gave them the Scrabble board to play with after dinner, but that lasted only thirty minutes. They took to watching a rock dove remake its nest in the splintered end of a fallen cabbage palm. After the sun feel, they watched the wax bead away from a candle. They will have no power at their house, but they are eager to leave. Rrrrrr..ddrrrr...unkk...rrrrr...rrr....
The generator dies. The lights go out. Uncle Peter almost stumbles down the stairs.
Christie and I have taken to bed early these nights, just after the generator runs out of fuel. Alissa asks, "Can I see it? It's just so noisy."
We grab flashlights and head down to the basement, which is just off the side of the garage, down three gentle concrete steps. The generator lays silent, but it's body gives off a dull glimmer in the darkness. The body gives off a ghostly orange color, like lava rock hitting the ocean water. The kids gasp. "That's cool," says Manny, aiming his flashlight at it. The beam kills the glow and his sister swats the light away. Uncle Peter says, "Like a dying campfire." I step into the actual basement and the storm water in it licks the top of my soles. I splash some water at the glow and the darkness sizzles.
Runka-runka-runka-runka! The noise echoes against the concrete in our basement, the tiny two-horsepower motor churning out enough power for the fridge, a single fan, and a TV. Christie will turn the fan to high around noon time and then we lose the TV. Nothing to watch anyway, just the broadcast stations on 24-hour alert. The generator goes on. Runka-runka-runka-runka!
The DPW just opened the freeway and my uncle Peter brings his kids over. They do not have a generator, living in the walk-up apartments out by the mall. Generators are prohibited, just like any and all pets. His kids, my little cousins, cringe at the cacophony. Alissa, the oldest, inhales deep and imitates the noise. Runka-runka-runka-runka, in the best rumble an eleven year old can do.
Uncle Peter came for ice, but Christie persuades them to stay for dinner. She waves a platter of chicken thighs she just grilled up on the charcoal Hibachi. "It's to keep them from spoiling for just a little bit longer," she explains to the kids. "But they will do much better in your stomachs!" She smiles as the boy, Manny, sandwiches a crispy thigh between slices of wheat bread. We eat dinner out in the backyard, so that we don't have to strain our voices over the generator. Runka-runka-runka-runka!
It is 10-o'clock. The gas in the generator dwindles to fumes. Rrrrrr....unka-rrrrrr.....unka-rrrrr...rrr....unka! Uncle Peter grabs his bag of ice and calls out to the kids. We gave them the Scrabble board to play with after dinner, but that lasted only thirty minutes. They took to watching a rock dove remake its nest in the splintered end of a fallen cabbage palm. After the sun feel, they watched the wax bead away from a candle. They will have no power at their house, but they are eager to leave. Rrrrrr..ddrrrr...unkk...rrrrr...rrr....
The generator dies. The lights go out. Uncle Peter almost stumbles down the stairs.
Christie and I have taken to bed early these nights, just after the generator runs out of fuel. Alissa asks, "Can I see it? It's just so noisy."
We grab flashlights and head down to the basement, which is just off the side of the garage, down three gentle concrete steps. The generator lays silent, but it's body gives off a dull glimmer in the darkness. The body gives off a ghostly orange color, like lava rock hitting the ocean water. The kids gasp. "That's cool," says Manny, aiming his flashlight at it. The beam kills the glow and his sister swats the light away. Uncle Peter says, "Like a dying campfire." I step into the actual basement and the storm water in it licks the top of my soles. I splash some water at the glow and the darkness sizzles.
____________________________
Onomatopoeia, yo! Peace!
No comments:
Post a Comment